


Reminder

by Nepenthene



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (duh), (i mean) - Freeform, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Canon Compliant, Dean Winchester Loves Castiel, Dean Winchester Wears Castiel's Trenchcoat, Episode: s07e02 Hello Cruel World, Heavy Angst, M/M, Missing Scene, alcohol for the outside ouchies and the inside ones too, beating your feelings down with a baseball bat isn't healthy, just 2000 words of Dean spiraling, say it with me kids, this is painful not gonna lie to you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:55:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27408421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nepenthene/pseuds/Nepenthene
Summary: "I miss him."
Relationships: Bobby Singer & Dean Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Comments: 2
Kudos: 28





	Reminder

He’d known, known as soon as that inky cloud of monster goo swirled away into the reservoir. But he’d fought against the sinking feeling in his stomach, hoping against hope that Cas’ head would suddenly breach the surface, that he’d get to bring the idiot back to Bobby’s and get him better and then chew him out all over again for his _fucking terrible_ decisions, goddammit. _Please_ _,_ he’d begged, _please let him be okay._

Then the trench coat had floated up to his feet, a tangle of filthy fabric caught on the rocky shore. And he was numb. He’d reached down and picked it up, streams of water sluicing off into the grass, and it had hit him. Cas was gone. 

He’d had to do something, so he’d folded the coat up carefully and tried to get angry enough not to cry, desperately denying the trembling of his chin and the prickle in his eyes. He hoped Sam and Bobby didn’t notice the way his fingers curled into the soaking wet fabric, crushing it in his fist. 

He’d managed to summon up some composure while they walked back to the car; from where, he has no idea. But it lasted while he shoved the damp coat deep into the trunk, lasted him all the way back to Bobby’s house. Lasted while he stitched up and bandaged Sam’s hand, while the three of them silently drank a couple fingers of whiskey to the empty chair with its own glass in front of it, like they do for every dead friend. Even lasted until Sam had finally passed out on the couch and Dean had stumbled out to Baby, ‘til he’d fallen into the driver’s seat with the half-full bottle of whiskey sloshing in his hand. 

Then the pressure that had been building up inside his ribcage all day reached a breaking point, and something inside him shattered. And suddenly there were hot tears dripping down his cheeks to go with the twisting, wrenching feeling in his gut. Dean had thumped his arms down onto the steering wheel and hid his face in his elbow, muffling the occasional sob he couldn’t quite choke down and trying not to let his whole body shake with the force of it. 

When the tears had finally slowed to a trickle, his sleeve was soaked through. He didn’t care. Rubbing a hand over his face, he’d unscrewed the cap of the bottle and took one last healthy swig before reluctantly putting it away. Sammy still needed him, so he couldn’t just let himself get really fucking drunk like he wanted to. Get completely wasted and pass out so he didn’t have to see Cas’ fear and shame and despair every time he closed his goddamn eyes. 

He sat in the Impala for another twenty minutes to make sure his colour went back down and his eyes weren’t all red and bloodshot, and then he went back inside, gave the bottle back to Bobby, and zipped himself into his sleeping bag without saying a word. 

He didn’t even get two hours that night.

— - —

Sam says he’s fine, but he’s obviously not. His gaze’ll drift off to the side, sometimes, when Dean or Bobby are talking to him. Like he’s looking at something just behind them. He flinches at nothing, walks around things that aren’t there, and once, when Dean’s just out of sight in the kitchen, he hears Sam talking to _him_ _._ To the ghost-Lucifer hitching a ride on his brain.

It’s times like that, in the cold light of day, when Dean finds it easy to get really fucking pissed at Cas.

But at night, when he’s alone in the dark with only himself to put up a front for, the anger doesn’t help him at all. It snakes into his chest and tangles itself up with the grief and pain that are simmering right below the surface, curling tightly around his heart in an ugly, pulsing mess that fucking _hurts._ Dean can’t drink or fuck it away because they’re still waiting for the other shoe to drop on the Leviathans, so there it stays, festering in his chest. He hates it, and he hates himself for being so weak, and just _god fucking dammit_ _,_ Cas. 

What did you do?

— - —

On Tuesday evening they’re all sitting down at the little table in the kitchen, eating dinner after a disappointing day of research. Bobby and Sam aren’t ready to give up hope quite yet, but Dean knows that the chances of finding anything on ancient goo-monsters from Purgatory are basically zero. It’s fuckin’ depressing, he muses bitterly as he pushes his baked beans around his plate. Sitting around, flipping through book after manuscript after scroll and ending up with nothing to show for it but a lot of wasted time. It’s all Cas’ damn fault, and he’s not even around to help them clean it up. (Seriously, what the hell were you thinking, man?) 

Dean stands abruptly, his chair screeching on the battered linoleum and his fork clattering to the table. Sam and Bobby freeze, identical worried stares searing into him. Carefully, Sam says, “You alright?”

“I need some air.” It comes out sharper than Dean meant it to, but he needs to get _out._ He takes deep, shaky breaths as he walks outside, restraining himself from jumping into the Impala and just _driving_ _._ Running a trembling hand through his hair, he admits to himself that something’s gotta give. He can’t keep going on like this; he’s gotta put Cas to rest, or he’s gonna end up being a liability. He’s gonna get Sammy killed or some shit. 

The trench coat is exactly where he left it, shoved down the side of the trunk next to a first aid kit, and Dean grimaces at the crunchy, slightly gummy texture of the dried fabric. He tucks it under his arm and shuts the trunk behind him, heading out to the main garage. 

He scrounges around in the various workbenches and behind the junky cars, eventually coming up with a couple pieces of greyish plywood, some rusty nails, and a hammer. He fashions a ragged cross, ignoring the splinters that work themselves into his fingers. He wishes he could do better. But it’ll have to do. It’s all he’s got.

When he walks back out of the garage, he finds Bobby leaning up against the house and Sam sitting on the back step. He stops, coat and cross in hand, and just fuckin’ _dares_ either of them to say a word. Bobby shrugs. 

“There’s a nice little grove a’ trees round the back. If you were lookin’ for a place.” He crosses his arms expectantly and waits for an answer. 

Dean swallows around the sudden lump in his throat. “Uh, yeah. Lead the way,” he croaks. And the three of them set off into the cool evening. 

Bobby takes them to the very edge of his property, and he and Sam stand back a little ways while Dean finds a place for the cross. He shoves it into the ground, adjusting it a little so it’s standing up straight, and then takes a few steps back. Bobby and Sam come up on either side of him, and they stand there in silence for a minute. There are tendrils of mist twining around the cross and the trees, and Dean realizes that the sun set at some point. He hadn’t noticed.

The air gets steadily cooler as they stand there, but Sam and Bobby don’t complain. Or say anything at all, actually. Finally, Dean gives Sam a nudge with his elbow. “You two head back. I’ll come in a minute.” He doesn’t look up from the sad little grave, but he can feel Sam and Bobby exchange a look behind his head. Sam’s hand comes up to rest heavy and warm on his shoulder, squeezing it gently before he and Bobby start walking. Dean waits, listening to the muffled thumping of their footsteps until they disappear completely. Then, quietly, he starts to talk. 

“You’re a shitty friend, y’know that? Leavin’ us here to clean up your own goddamned mess for you.” A tear drips off the end of Dean’s nose, and runs a rough hand over his face, trying to keep it together. “We’re in way over our heads. We don’t know a damn thing about those motherfuckers that piggybacked up here with you.” Closing his eyes, Dean lets out a croaky, bitter laugh that’s more of a sob than anything else. “What happened to you, man? Why’d you shut us out? I trusted you. I gave you so many goddamned chances to do the right thing, and _every_ time, you chose not to.”

There’s no stopping the tears as they start to ooze from the corners of Dean’s eyes. He ducks his head, hands clenching around the trench coat as he tries to get a grip on himself. A cool breeze ruffles his hair, and he stands there for a long, long time. 

Finally he opens his eyes again, looking down at the coat in his hands. It’s dotted with little wet splotches and wrinkly from his hands, and it’s just so _Cas_ it hurts. Slowly, against his better judgement, Dean shakes it out and slides it on. 

He jams his hands into the pockets and shivers at the gentle weight on his shoulders, eyes fixed on the little cross in front of him. 

“I just… I miss you. So damn much.” It’s barely a whisper, hard for Dean to admit. But as he says it, the mess of emotions in his chest unspools just a little. Just enough.

Stepping forward, he brushes his fingers over the worn wood of the cross and closes his eyes. “Bye, Cas.”

He takes the trench coat off on the way back; he’d thought about leaving it at the grave or burning it like he would for a hunter, but he doesn’t. He can’t. 

_(He’ll need it when he gets back,_ a tiny, childish part of Dean whispers. _He’s gonna come back. He always comes back.)_

(That hurts so much that it’s all Dean can do to choke back another wave of tears.)

So when he gets back to the house he folds the coat up as nice and neat as he can, and puts it back into the trunk of the Impala, moving aside the guns and ammo and boxes of salt so he can put it way down, right at the bottom.

He hesitates then, one hand on the open trunk, and strokes a gentle finger over a sliver of tan fabric poking out from under a box of rosaries and spray paint.

Then he shuts the trunk and goes back inside.

  
  


_So watch the world tear us apart,_

_A stoic mind and a bleeding heart_

_(You’ll never see my bleeding heart)_

_A constant reminder of where I can find her,_

_A light that might give up the way;_

_It’s all that I’m asking for,_

_Without her I’m lost,_

_Oh my love, don’t fade away_

_Oh my love, don’t fade away_

**Author's Note:**

> Lyrics and title from "Reminder", by Mumford & Sons.  
> Credit to remmyme on Tumblr for the art.


End file.
